


Legend Tells

by callmeflo



Series: a Mage's Bane [5]
Category: Moren-Ezen
Genre: Gen, Hallow's Eve Event
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-22 11:15:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21301142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmeflo/pseuds/callmeflo
Summary: You never know what kinds of magic can spark from just a little imagination.
Series: a Mage's Bane [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1533155





	Legend Tells

_October 31st_

_The stories told around the Hallow’s Eve bonfires are older than time and cherished by all of us. There are many different beliefs and opinions in amongst those who sit around the fire’s edge, but for this evening they all come together to listen to the elders talk - the tales of their childhood, and of their parents’ and grandparents’, and the legends passed down from even before then._

_I could listen to the same tales told over and over and never get bored of it. I always liked the stories from those who scouted the lands years back, how they describe the landscape so differently to what I’ve seen of it, the wonders they’ve found on their travels, and the lives of creatures they’ve learnt over time. They lead me to exploring further out from the city, and then taking on the job of scouting once Madsie was broken._

_My favourites now are the oldest ones, what little is remembered of the old Guardians, the power they gave and the warnings they’ve turned into._

_You never know what kinds of magic can spark from just a little imagination._

✧

There’s a cheering squad waiting at the exit by the time Nawra and Madsie burst gratefully from the last dark line of maize and into the slightly less dull lighting of the open urban sprawl, much later than intended. She throws her arms open at the sky in theatrical relief and receives the laughter of those watching. Several of the nearby kids totter over to coo at Madsie’s hand paints, stroking over her soft muzzle and tugging gently on her braided mane.

Nawra dismounts and leaves them to it, knowing the mare will come to her whistle and won’t wander far. The night has drawn in considerably but the area ahead is lit up brightly by the roaring bonfire, the wood, foliage, and unwanted or broken furniture that makes up its bulk reaching higher than her own head, and the flames another metre higher. Sparks and embers float around the clearing like fireflies that evade her hands when she reaches up to catch them.

The songs and dances have begun, long swirling dresses and jangling necklaces floating about painted legs as people of all ages drift around in choreographed synchronism. There’s a group of smartly dressed musicians clustered together that weave the music, but in the audience there are many others who’ve picked up a harmonica or rice bottle to join in with the melody. A pair of young girls take turns in singing improvised verses, the lyrics showing their thanks for the harvest and excitement for the snow to come.

Market stall tables have been lined up together for a buffet that keeps being refilled as it’s taken from. Nawra slips into line to collect a bowl of chicken and venison, rice, and baby vegetables all lush and juicy, and has a goblet of wine thrust into her spare hand by the bright eyed, eager girl assisting the cooks.

With hundreds of participants, the great bonfire would be crowded very quickly - instead adults wind wine-soaked cloths around strong branches and light them like makeshift torches. They separate out, lighting others’ torches in turn, or sparking miniature campfires further out for smaller groups to gather round. The city elders, storytellers, and scribes come out with much ceremony and spread out too, so that everyone has the chance to listen to their words.

Nawra wanders away from the busy centre. She finds Madsie not far from where she left her, nibbling the grass along a fence line with her reins kindly knotted behind her ears.

“Hey darling,” she murmurs, and the mare immediately looks up and goes to stick her nose in Nawra’s goblet. “Nice try. C’mon now, let’s get you tied up.”

There are wooden stakes laid out across the field edges, and tie lines dangling from overhead trees all free to use for visitors that’ve ridden in. Madsie is swiftly hitched up, her bags and tack tucked against the hollow of an oak trunk, and then Nawra returns to the nearest fire to settle down between a group of people she doesn’t recognise but who welcome her easily. They’re all decked out in heavy gear with fur in the hoods and extra bags, weapons visible at their hips - travellers, likely completely nomadic and just passing by. It’s interesting to see them joining in with such a large city community, and oddly comfortable to find herself part of their group.

It’s after the second story that a hand brushes her shoulder, and Nawra raises her head to lock eyes with her mother’s. Her face is painted by the unpractised hand of a child and she’s sporting the soft, reminiscent smile that’s only revealed in this relaxed atmosphere. Having grown up nomadic and had to change her lifestyle after marrying and settling down in the conservative Haspar, Farah Nazari rarely gets to show and share her roots. Here, not quite yet an elder but respected in these celebrations all the same, she thrives.

“Nawrie, baby, you been too busy to visit your mama yet?” Farah says as she kneels primly in the grass beside her daughter, reaching over a calloused hand to grip one of hers.

Nawra smiles back at her. “Lost in the damned maze as usual,” she mutters, “but I’ll be by tonight. Do you have a mutinous story for us on this fine evening?”

Farah sits tall and all attention is instantly on her wise gaze. “It just so happens that I do,” she speaks, just louder than a whisper. “A story of the winter spirit who walks in the northern lands, his hoofed feet never leaving a mark in the snow as he guides the reindeer herds along the safest paths. He holds a glowing staff carved with runes for protection, and wears pretty beaded scarves.”

“Does he not get cold?” Nawra asks on cue. The nomads are enraptured, leaning forward in their seats but otherwise frozen still.

“He does not,” Farah answers, “for within his soul is fire - and with his hands he can shape it…”

As she speaks, the small bonfire before them leaps taller and brighter all of a sudden, and in its flames Nawra swears she can see the winter spirit raising his staff.

**Author's Note:**

> the night of All Hallow's Eve is spent telling legends of magic.
> 
> Word Count(1051 WC), Horse + Rider(+2), Event Entry(+2), Personal Work(+1) = 15EP for Nawra and Madsie


End file.
